


Captive

by shreddedpatches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:39:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2890595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shreddedpatches/pseuds/shreddedpatches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever said living with Jim Moriarty would be easy, but Richard had always been up for the challenge—that is, until Jim took after their father and decided that communicating with fists was sometimes more effective than communicating with words.  When nothing is getting better, Richard decides it's time that Jim comes in with him to talk this out with a professional.  After all, if anyone could convince Jim to finally see a shrink, it would be his dearly-beloved twin. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captive

The bed sheets were white.  The lampshades were white.  The walls and the ceiling were white.  

The whole bedroom dripped with the absence of color, of creativity and vitality, and Richard couldn’t stand it.  White wasn’t just a color, not when there was enough of it to drown him.  White was hospital rooms and insane asylums; he’d been to both and would rather not return to either.

Well, he hadn’t been _admitted_ to the insane asylum.  But he’d been a visitor. 

It wasn’t just the bedroom: the whole apartment was white, impeccably so, for an impeccable man with impeccable tastes.  When Jim was there, the white stayed back, lurking in the corners, and Richard could ignore it.  But when he wasn’t there, the white would slide down Richard’s throat and scrape away every bit of _something_ until he was left shivering on the bed, consumed with _nothing_ , unable to stave off the emptiness. 

Technically, it was Richard’s fault that they were living in that apartment at all; Jim had been more than content to slink away from the boring masses and hide out in the countryside once he had established a firm network.  He was still a phone call away from his clients, after all, and it was safer in the middle of nowhere.  But Richard was a people lover and an actor by profession.  The two-hour drive into London every day for rehearsals was too much; after Richard started getting hotel rooms and only coming home on the weekend, Jim relented, buying his brother an apartment in the heart of the city for his birthday.  (And then ruining it by hiring that terrible interior designer.)

If it was Richard’s fault that they had moved to the apartment, it was Richard’s fault that Jim had gotten…worse.  The twins had always known that they were a little different than the _normal_ people, but by the time they had reached adolescence, they had realized that Jim was _unusually_ different.  It wasn’t his superior intellect—Jim was just…off.  There was something inside him, something that even Richard was scared of.  

It wasn’t something that they discussed.  Richard had tried, a few times; his therapist had suggested that maybe if Jim could “talk it out” with his brother, maybe “it” would get better.  But Jim wasn’t the kind of person to open up about the things inside his head, not even to his brother.  And so they just pretended there wasn’t a problem.  They were both talented actors; it was easy to play like Jim wasn’t a murderer.

But the city—maybe it was the oppressive presence of the ordinaries, maybe it was the noise, maybe it was those white walls, maybe it was that Sherlock Holmes character.  Something had infected him.  Before moving to London, Jim had _never_ intentionally hurt his brother.  (That wasn’t quite true; Jim would demand that Richard injure himself to maintain their identical appearance right down to scar tissue.  But…it was almost true.) 

Today, the right side of Richard’s face was mottled with blues and purples and greens.  It had been like that, off and on, steadily growing worse, for five years. 

It wasn’t like he just let Jim hit him without doing anything to try to make him stop.  Well, it was like that.  But—well, after the third time Jim’s fist collided with his face, he had gone to Sebastian.  Maybe the sniper would be able to do something. 

His voice had been small when he announced, “Seb, he’s hitting me,” looking up to display the violently yellow bruise on his temple.  Sebastian nodded, whispering “I know” and holding Richard close.

“He told me it was a one-time thing, Richard.  Which doesn’t make it okay, but I thought…” He trailed off, sighing.  “I’ll talk to him about it.  Get him to stop.  I promise.”

For a while, Richard had thought it had worked.  Then one night Jim came home and grabbed Richard by the throat and pushed him against a wall, going off about something in the kitchen.  Richard didn’t know what he could have possibly done wrong to warrant this behavior, but Jim was always right, so Richard probably deserved it.  He deserved it.  Internalizing this, he stayed quiet.

He was jolted back to the present by the gentle creak of the apartment door and the breathless padding of feet, so soft that Richard would have missed them had he not been waiting for those same sounds all day.  _Maybe Seb got off work early.  He’s supposed to be home by seven._

A groan, then: “Sebby, put the kettle on.  I’m _thirsty_.”

Not Sebastian.

The footsteps paced around the living room, waiting impatiently for the fulfillment of their command before realizing that it had fallen on deaf—nonexistent—ears.  Then there was a pause, and Richard found his stomach boiling with dread when the voice rang out again.  “Sebby dear, where are you?”

The house was so still that Richard could hear the impossibly low growl through the walls.  “You know where I am.”

“Get home right now and put the kettle on.  I’m thirsty.”

“Boss, I’ve been sitting on this damn roof for sixteen hours.  Just let me finish the job you asked me to do and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Hillenbrand’s boring; we can let him run around for another week.  Now get home and make me a cup of tea.”

“Boss—”

“ _Now_ , Sebastian.”

The man on the other end of the phone groaned audibly.  “Boss, with all due respect, you run a criminal organization that has infiltrated _every single country_ on this godforsaken planet, and you’re telling me you honestly can’t figure out how to make yourself a cup of bloody tea?!”

“Wrong again, Sebby.  That’s exactly why I _shouldn’t have to_ make my own tea.”

“Sixteen hours!  Why can’t Richard—”

Richard flinched to hear his name spoken; he flinched again at the irate scream that shook the apartment: “ _Richard_ can—”

And then the silence clenched the room again.  Richard could hear the sound of his own heart beating furiously in his chest.  Options, what were his options?  The only way out of the apartment that didn’t go through the living room was the window.  He could hide, lock himself in the bathroom, maybe.  No: Jim would just break down the door.

Richard’s thoughts were interrupted before he could make a real escape plan.  “That reminds me—how did the _other_ job go?  Did he jump?” asked the voice in the other room, suddenly eager.  Richard gulped. 

“Yes, Boss.  Everything went fine.  The police have found the body; it should be in the paper tomorrow.”

“ _Excellent_.  Pack up your bags and get home.  I’ll send out an order for a mug-and-murder for Hillenbrand on his way home from work tomorrow; will _that_ make you happy?”

“Shooting someone in the face right now would make me happy.”

Richard heard a soft chuckle.  “I want you home in twenty minutes.  Don’t keep me _waaaiting_.”

The mobile clicked off, and Richard found himself holding his breath, terrified that the footsteps might find their way into his refuge.  With the fear came guilt: how _dare_ he be afraid of Jim?  Yes, he had hit Richard, and no, that wasn’t okay, but it wasn’t as though anyone had ever taught Jim _why_ that wasn’t okay.  The bruises would fade anyway.  They always did.

The door swung open anticlimactically, and Richard’s brother stood in the doorway, a single shopping bag clasped in his dominant hand.  His eyes quickly surveyed the room, looking everywhere that _wasn’t_ Richard, before he decided it was safe to enter.  Richard, on the other hand, could not take his eyes off the intruder: he moved to a sitting position, his knees rising against his chest to protect him, and he never let his gaze leave Jim as he moved around the room. 

“Got you something,” Jim mumbled as he set the bag gently at the foot of the bed.  He slid out of his jacket, letting the expensive piece fall to the ground carelessly (on any other day, Richard would have instinctively leapt from the bed and folded it), before sighing and electing to stand in front of the window.  The large slice of glass offered a stunning view of London as the sun sank behind it; as Jim stared intently into it, Richard felt his brother was staring into a mirror, with the city his reflection. 

“Are you going to open it or not?”  Jim growled, apparently upset that Richard had not instantly bubbled out thanks at receiving the small plastic bag.  To be honest, Richard was afraid of the bag: he wouldn’t be surprised if it exploded once he picked it up. 

_But if I_ don’t _inspect the bag,_ Jim _will explode_ , Richard thought.  And so he took the plastic in his hands, cringing at the sound of it crinkling beneath his fingers, and pulled out a too-familiar blue scarf. 

“Thought of you,” Jim whispered, watching Richard’s face as he turned the fabric over in his hands.

_No you didn’t.  You weren’t thinking of me at all.  Unless now I’m going to have to roll play Sherlock in the bedroom or something._  

“It’s nice,” Richard said, nodding his head gently.  It really _was_ a nice scarf. Pity a certain consulting detective had the same one.  But Richard would grin and ignore it and wear the damn scarf and pretend it didn’t matter because that’s what brothers are for and Lord help him if he made a fuss.

Jim had discarded his tie and unbuttoned the first few buttons on his dress shirt.  “You can…you can leave the house tomorrow if you think you’ve learned your lesson,” he muttered, sliding onto the bed hesitantly, obviously unable to tell if he was welcome.  “I thought maybe we could go out tomorrow.  Wherever you wanted.  It would be up to you…”

“Jim, I—” Richard stammered. It was a rare offer, and one Richard would have loved to accept, but…

“My troupe needs me.  The play opens in three weeks.  It’s bad enough that I’ve missed yesterday and today.”

Jim threw a look of disgust at his brother that reminded him he was dealing with one of the most powerful men in the world.  “What loyalty.  They really do mean _everything_ to you, don’t they?  Why,” he paused to laugh, glazing his fingers over his face, “if you had it your way, you’d be fucking half of them five ways ‘till Friday, wouldn’t you?”

“Darren isn’t—we didn’t—I just thought that it would be fair if—”

Richard cut himself off when Jim crawled over and enveloped him in a gesture that should have been but wasn’t a hug. His face was nestled in the crook of Richard’s neck; Richard could feel his breath hot on his shoulder when he spoke, his mouth never quite closing.   When he crooned “Darren isn’t _what_ , Richie?” Richard couldn’t ignore the dreadful feeling that it was not his brother lying on the bed with him, but the monster inside him, the one they never talked about.

“He isn’t my boyfriend.  It was one date, and I don’t think it’s going to work out.” _How could it, Jim?  How could I ever explain to him that I let my overprotective criminal brother penetrate me regularly?  And that I like it, even though I know it’s wrong?_ “It’s not like we even slept together, Jim.”

He had been so stupid to think maybe he could have a normal relationship with his troupe member.  It was just—Darren had offered to take him out, and sometimes Richard wanted more than this dead-end relationship of sucking his brother’s cock whenever Jim asked.  He wanted to get married, he wanted kids, and a house of his own, and if Jim wasn’t going to give him those things, then he had to look elsewhere, right?

Richard knew Jim wouldn’t ever give him permission to go out with _anyone, ever,_ but since Richard was in his thirties and didn’t think he should need his brother’s permissions to make decisions, he accepted the invitation without letting Jim know where he was going.  Big mistake: when Richard finally came home, he was greeted with a fist to the face and an order to remain stuck in the house until further notice. 

“I know you didn’t,” Jim replied, and Richard could feel him smiling against his neck.

“How—?”  It was a stupid question.  Jim knew _everything_ Richard did.  Maybe it was some sort of one-sided twin telepathy.

“Do you wanna know what _else_ I know?” Jim sang, and suddenly he was all childish giggles and glee.  “Come on, don’t be _stu_ -pid.  _Ask me._   Ask me about Darren.”

Richard _wasn’t_ stupid: the words could only mean one thing.  “What did you do, Jim?”  Richard said slowly, backing away from the fit of manic snickering lying next to him, his voice unsure whether it was angry or disgusted or heartbroken or afraid.  “What did you do to him?”

Jim sat up and locked his eyes on Richard for the first time since he entered the room.  “Me?” he asked, putting his hand to his chest in an act of innocence.  “I didn’t do anything!  Why, it must have been _you_ , Richie—” he cried, his hands tugging Richard’s cardigan, the whiteness of his clenched knuckles screaming _please believe me!_   “He must have been _heartbroken_ that you never called him back.  See, a little birdie told me that he jumped into the Thames this morning.  Police found him washed up on the beach.  So sad.”

It took a few moments for the words to sink in, moments Richard spent staring aghast at Jim’s pitiful pouting lips.  Finally: “Get off of me.”

“Whaaat?”

“Get.  Off.  Of.  Me.”

“Oh, Richie,” Jim said as he stroked Richard’s face, reminding him that he would touch him _all he wanted_ , “don’t be like that.”

Richard swatted the hand away.  “Darren was my friend, Jim.  He was my friend and he was the lead in the play and we didn’t even do anything, I didn’t even let him touch me, we just kissed, we did that enough at rehearsals anyway, for our parts, you know, and I never would have—I didn’t want—how could you—why—”  He collapsed, gasping behind shaking hands.

Jim approached his brother again, peeling back his fingers and gently wiping away the tears running down his face, and Richard couldn’t help it: he _melted_ into the touch.  The soft kisses of Jim’s fingers were all he had ever truly known—all Jim had ever _let_ him know—besides the impact of his father’s fist, and he didn’t know how to tell Jim to stop.  So he leaned towards his brother and shivered and sobbed and let the fingers poison him.

Jim was whispering, and his voice was seeping into Richard and killing him before he could realize he was in danger.  “This is just what you do to people.  It happened to Daddy and it happened to Carl.  You know, I think it even happened to Mommy too.  And now it’s happened to poor Darren…but it’s not your fault, Richard.  This is just what happens when people get to close to you.  When they try to love you or try to hate you. 

“And you know what?  I think it happens because they just can’t understand.  They can’t understand the things inside you, the kinds of desires you have.  But that’s okay, because _I_ understand, and _I’ll_ always love you, and I’ll _never_ leave you, because we’re the same, Richard.  We’re the same.”

“That’s not true,” came the shaking reply, a weak little thing that could barely stand up by itself, held down by the weight of its fear.  “I didn’t kill them, Jim.  Mum was nobody’s fault, and you killed the rest of them.”

“Oh but Richard, baby,” he said, and his fingers were in Richard’s hair now, threading it into painful knots when he clenched too tight, “what was I supposed to do?  They were trying to take you away from me!  I couldn’t just let you _leave_.”

There was something about those words that made Richard sick inside.  They had always lay hidden in the way Jim would walk in front of him like some kind of doppelganger bodyguard even when they were children in school, in the way he would hold Richard’s hands too tightly and kiss with too much force, in the way he would softly trace the wounds their father would leave scattered across Richard’s back, his eyes speckled with angry tears and his mouth mumbling vengeance.  But they had never been spoken aloud, and so Richard pretended they weren’t there.

Now the words were out there, and Richard couldn’t play like his therapist just didn’t understand anymore.  He had to ask, softly, barely making a sound: “Jim…am I even a person to you?”

“Huh?”  Jim blinked. 

“Am I a person to you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jim replied, pushing Richard against the headboard and placing his lips on Richard’s neck, his tongue searching out the small throbbing that signaled that Richard was still alive.  The sick feeling in Richard’s stomach intensified; he couldn’t believe that his brother could be so oblivious to his distress—or maybe Jim really just didn’t care. 

“No, Jim—stop—I’m trying to talk to you—”

To Richard’s surprise, Jim actually did.  He pulled away, anger filtering back into his eyes, but he leaned back and said “Then talk!” all the same.  Yes, he was still basically straddling his brother, but Richard knew it was probably the best he was going to get.

“Okay…”  Richard hesitated.  He and Sam—Dr. Samantha Clements, that is—had already practiced this conversation over and over at her insistence.  She would play Jim and Richard would play a confident, stronger version of himself who actually believed he didn’t deserve the mistreatment thrust upon him.  But that didn’t help now, not when his brother’s weight sat oppressively on his legs, not when he could see the duvet crumpling under Jim’s clenched fingers.

_What was I supposed to say?  Something about those ‘I statements’._ I think, I see, I feel, I want, I will.  Statements specifically constructed to prevent Jim from feeling like he was being attacked and to remind him that Richard was on his side.  Statements to keep Jim from lashing out. 

As though any words could honestly prevent that.

_I_ … _could just…not._   It wasn’t like he _really_ needed to confront Jim.  Maybe Richard was being too harsh.  He and Jim had lived like this for over thirty years: they didn’t _need_ to change.  Clearly what they had was working.

Except things _weren’t_ working, not if Richard was spending his days hiding in their bedroom, nursing his bruises and dreading his brother’s return. 

And then there was Jim: _I couldn’t just let you leave_.  It wasn’t like their relationship was any healthier for him, if he honestly felt like the only way he could keep Richard in his life was by killing those who got too close to him. 

“What I mean is…do you…respect me?  I guess.  Jim, do you respect me?”

Oh god.  It was all wrong.  He couldn’t do it, didn’t know how.

Jim’s head moved side to side in that odd reptilian fashion that had a habit of unnerving his clients.  “What do you _mean_?”  He met Richard’s eyes and squinted, like he hoped if he stared hard enough, understanding would just wash over him. 

Richard swallowed.  _Okay, let’s start over.  Take a different approach._   “Look, Jim…I know you care about me, but sometimes you, um, I feel like you think of me as a pet instead of, you know, a…another human being?  Does that make sense to you?”

“No.”

_Of course it doesn’t.  Why would it?  Why would you_ ever _try to cooperate with me?_   “Okay…well, what you were saying earlier, how you said you felt like you had to kill people so I wouldn’t leave you?  I can’t imagine what it would feel to…feel like that.”  Richard paused, hoping Jim would say something, but he didn’t.  He just stared.  “Jim, I love you.  I love you so much and I would never leave you, okay?”

No reply. 

“No one’s taking me away, promise.  So please don’t feel like that?”

Nothing.  Just two dead eyes in a dead, white room lit by a sun slinking behind the city.

“But…right now I feel like you don’t trust me.  I mean, I’m thirty-six and I just spent two days on house arrest—”

“I said you could leave tomorrow!”

“But I shouldn’t have been on house arrest in the first place, Jim!  I’m an adult, I can take care of myself, I can make my own decisions, and you’re not letting me do that!”

And Jim started laughing, an insane, energetic burst that was quickly replaced by smooth chuckling as he looked to the side and tried to regain composure.  “Don’t be _stupid_ , Richie.  You can’t take care of yourself!  You’ve been dependent on me your _entire life_.  I did your homework, I took your beatings, and now I’m letting you live in the lap of luxury while you play like you’re some starving actor.  And you think you have the right to make your own decisions about _anything,_ after everything I’ve done for you?!”

Richard didn’t know what to do.  He’d avoided this conversation for so long, and now that it was out he just wanted Jim to listen to him, but he wasn’t listening, he never would, and his face was inches from Richard’s, his hands were so close, and at any moment he could snap and mottle his face again if he didn’t like what Richard said—

“ _Well?_   Don’t tell me that’s all you had to say.”

“No, it’s not—” Richard started, at a loss for words.  “Well, see, the way things are—I don’t feel—I don’t feel like all of my needs are being met.  Okay?  And I know that you care about me so I’m sure you don’t want me to feel like that.  To feel trapped. Right?  I’m not happy right now, Jim, I’m really not, and I just—I was just hoping you’d come in, come in and try to work it out with Sam, so we can both be happy?  Would that be okay?”

“You want me to go see a shrink.”

“No—well I mean, yes, but…”  Richard was starting to feel defeated.  Then again, Jim had never even given him an _opportunity_ to discuss the _possibility_ that _maybe_ their relationship wasn’t perfect.  Perhaps, in time, Jim would yield.  “I just want to see if we can get you some help, Jim.  So you don’t have to feel like I’m going to abandon you, and I can have friends and still have you too.  Does that sound okay?”

“I.  Don’t.  _Need._   Help.” 

“I really think you do, Jim,” Richard said as gently as he could, taking one of his brother’s hands off the bed and covering it with his own.  “I just want to try it, okay?  So we can both be happy?”

“ _I don’t need help!_ ”  Jim shrieked, and he jerked his hand away in a motion that accidentally-on-purpose grazed Richard’s face.  When he spoke again, his entire body was shaking.  “These things you want, going in to _see_ someone, to work out our _problems_ —it’s so boring!  Richie, I thought you—why would you—it’s for stupid people!  Therapy is for stupid people!  We don’t need fixing!  I don’t need fixing!  I’m fine!  I’m fine!  Why don’t you—why don’t you understand?”

“Jim…”  Richard began, and his voice trembled.  “Jim, I know it’s scary—I’m scared too—but I really need you to do this for me.  I can’t live like this anymore.  And if—if you won’t go, I think I’ll have to, you know, maybe stay someplace else for a while, just until—”

“You can’t leave.”  It wasn’t a plea, or a command, really, just a statement of fact.  “You can’t leave.”

“I didn’t say I was going to—”

“You can’t leave!  You can’t leave me, Richie!” 

Jim was not a crier.  Even when he injured himself as a child, he rarely let the pain control him in such an unsightly and undignified way.  It had taken him years to learn how to produce crocodile tears to garner sympathy from others.  But the tears were in full flow now, real ones, leaking from his eyes and splashing down onto the white of his shirt, and it made Richard want to hold him and apologize for everything and promise whatever Jim wanted to hear—

He had to ignore it.  He had made so much progress.  He couldn’t just turn around now, right?

“Jim, I don’t want to leave you, but if—”

And then Jim broke.

Richard heard the shouts of “Shut up!  SHUT UP!” before he felt the hands latched around his neck.  For a moment he didn’t know he was in pain—and then he did, and oh fuck it hurt, it hurt like he hadn’t been hurt in years, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe.  With the pain came confusion:  what was happening?  Where was he?  Whose hands were these?  Why were they shaking him?  What did he do wrong?  What did he do?

The base of his neck collided with the headboard in a vicious smack—and then again, over and over.  Richard couldn’t help it—he began to scream, began to beg, beg to the only person who would ever do this to him.

“Daddy, stop!  Hurts!”  It hurt even more to choke the precious words out from between the fingers.  Daddy stopped—but now he was smothering him, smothering Richard with those cruel hands, and he tried to scream again: “Jim!  Jim, help me!”

For a moment, it felt like Richard’s brother had come to his aid.  The hands left his face, and Jim sat on his chest, his whole body trembling, his mouth open like he was going to say something. 

“Jim,” Richard breathed, relieved.  Then: “Jim, it hurts.”

Maybe it was the pleading tone; maybe it was how Richard pushed the words out in a whisper; maybe it was how the words were an echo of their childhood.  Something about them…set Jim off, and his eyes lit up with a malice that belonged to their father, and he lunged, and then Richard understood.

He understood he was in danger, and he understood Jim wasn’t going to save him, and he understood he needed to run, _now_.  He scrambled out from under Jim, who was momentarily baffled by the escape, and threw himself off the bed.  But of _course_ he couldn’t catch himself correctly—he landed on his arm, and a jolt of pain traveled up towards his body, and he heard a sharp _crack_ —

That didn’t matter now: Jim had found him again, and his fingers were wrapped around his neck, and he was dragging him towards the window.  He was shouting: “How _dare_ you run away, Richard!  You can’t leave!  _You can’t leave!_ ”  Then his hands were on the base of his neck, already sore from the headboard, and then Richard felt the side of his face smacking against something, something hard, over and over. 

He tried to do something, _anything_ , he really tried, but all he could manage to do between his head crashing over and over into the glass was flail his arms helplessly and sob.  Then the pain started to ebb, and his vision went fuzzy, and between the cries of “Don’t leave me!” and “I love you so much, Richard,” he realized he just didn’t care anymore, didn’t care what happened to him, and he let himself slip into the black.

***

He did not want to wake up.  His head felt impossibly heavy—far too heavy for him to be awake, yet his senses were slowly coming back, and he didn’t think he could ever fall asleep with that incessant beeping coming from somewhere to his right.  No, and he surely couldn’t sleep in these sheets—they felt rough, and cold, and lonely. 

The harsh florescent lights of the room assaulted his eyes when he tried to open them, and he quickly squished them shut.  Too much.  The lights, the beeping.  _Stop, make it stop._

He tried to say as much, croaking out a weak, “Please, turn it off,” unsure if he was referring to the lights or the sound.  Either, both.  He didn’t care.  Surprisingly, someone or something seemed to respond to his plea—he heard a voice, a familiar one, whispering, “Sebastian, could you hit the lights, please?” followed by footsteps walking away and the flick of a switch being pulled towards the ground.  Behind his eyelids, he could detect that the room, or wherever he was, had grown dark, and so he let his eyes fall open again. 

“Richard,” the voice breathed, and Richard rolled his head over to find a face to match to it.  Jim.  Of course—Richard was hurting, and Jim was there to fix it.  Like always.  “Richard, how are you feeling?”

“’M tired, Jim,” Richard said, reaching his hand out for his brother.  Jim saw the pitiful thing searching across the ugly sheet and grabbed it, cradling it.  “Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital,” Sebastian said gruffly, settling back down into his chair on the opposite side of Richard’s bed.  Jim tossed Sebastian a warning glance that Richard, in his groggy state, completely missed.

Instead, Richard blinked.  The hospital?  “Why am I in the hospital?” he asked, turning his head towards Jim again.  Oh, turning his head hurt.  As much as he liked Sebastian, he decided he would just look at Jim for now, because Jim had the answers, and turning his head was too painful.

“You were mugged on your way home from work, sweetie,” Jim said, squeezing Richard’s hand to comfort him.  “You were unconscious when we found you.  I was so worried…”  His voice trailed off, his eyes filling with small tears.

“Mugged.  That’s one way to put it.”  Sebastian glared at Jim, eyes filled with as much contempt as his voice held.  Jim ignored the remark, and Richard, still too tired to really pay attention to what was going on, missed the meaning behind Sebastian’s words altogether.

“I thought I wasn’t going to work this week?” Richard asked, his voice feeble.  Jim hadn’t let him go because he had done something bad.  He couldn’t remember what, though.  He guessed it didn’t matter; the important thing was that he was alive and with his brother, right?

“Oh, Richie, did you forget the whole day?  Honey, it was your first day back.  I let you go in because you were being so good.”  Jim paused, inhaling a sharp, pained breath.  “I shouldn’t have let you.  This wouldn’t have happened.”

“It’s not your fault, Jim,” Richard said, smiling, hoping that if Jim saw he wasn’t feeling so bad, he would feel less guilty.  Jim shook his head, unable to meet his brother’s gaze. 

“Jim, I’m kinda tired.  I’m going to try and sleep more, okay?”

“Okay, sweetie,” Jim said quietly.  “Do you want us to stay with you?”

“Can you, please?” Richard replied, clasping his brother’s hand even more tightly.  He didn’t want Jim to go.

“Of course,” Jim murmured, running a hand down Richard’s cheek.  “And Richard?  This…this won’t happen again, okay?  I’m going to take such good care of you.  I promise.”

“I know,” Richard hummed, and he let his eyes close.  It didn’t matter if sometimes he felt like Jim was trying to suffocate him—Jim just wanted what was best for him.  With that thought, he drifted off to sleep, feeling so, so safe with his brother watching over him.


End file.
